Wishing On Airplanes
by ShadowAssassin41
Summary: Trevor was a superhero in Tracey's eyes. He was bigger than life, no one could bring him down. He flew planes, scared the monsters out from under her bed, and always came running when she needed him. Then, he's taken away from her. She's taken to a mansion in a city that is fake and everyone's the same, and no one seems to care that her most important person is gone. She hates it.
1. The Birth of James Michael Townley

**Birth of James Michael Townley**

**...\~/...**

It was three minutes past three in the morning when Amanda Townley's water broke. Her eyes shot open when she felt the overwhelming sensation and she bolted upright. Michael, who was a heavy sleeper, continued to snore through her distress, oblivious to what was happening around him. Until Amanda shook him awake, of course. Through hazy eyes, he saw the panic spread across his wife's face, and flicked his eyes towards the alarm clock, neon green blaring 3:04 now. With a groan, he flipped over and grumbled, "Go back to sleep, Amanda. It's only...mmm..." And he dozed back off.

Amanda shook him again, this time hissing, "My water broke, Michael!"

However, he _was _awake enough to hear those four words.

"Holy fuck! Your water broke!"

The man shot up, throwing off the covers and flipping out of his warm bed, while a very pregnant Amanda struggled to get off the bed. Michael frantically pulled on a pair of jeans and hearing his wife's grunts, he ran over to help her off the mattress. Even though the situation was borderline chaotic, this was the second time she'd gone through the pregnancy thing. She knew how to deal with this situation, and she inhaled slowly through her mouth and exhaled just as slowly through her nose. Amanda had herself calmed, while her husband continued to hurry around the room, looking for clothes to wear and something warm to wrap Amanda in, something thick enough to withstand North Yankton's cold climate.

"How are you feeling, Manda? Do you need to sit down? Do you need something to eat? Do you-"

"Michael," Amanda said, grabbing onto her husband's shoulder and pulling him towards her. Her hands cupped his jaw, forcing him to look into her eyes. "Calm down. Take a deep breath and _calm down_." She watched as Michael closed those green eyes of his and did as he was instructed. When he opened his eyes again, concern was etched into them. Before he could say anything, Amanda beat him to it. "Honey, it'll be alright. I've done this before. Everything will turn out okay."

"Well, I _haven't _done this before," he reminded.

True. This was Michael's first child, Amanda remembered. When they first met, she was a stripper dancing on the pole trying to make some money, trying to make ends meet. She had been different from the other strippers, however, and what made her special was that she had a child, a daughter to be exact. Amanda Olsen (her maiden name) had made the decision of doing prostitution on the side two years prior, as well as her stripper career, just to make some extra dollars. A few months in, she found herself pregnant, and nine months later, she had her daughter, Tracey Marie Olsen. After that, when it came to dating, the moment she mentioned a kid when meeting men, they avoided Amanda like the plague. But Michael...he was different. He accepted both of them into his life, and even though he was a criminal and constantly running from the law, Amanda had no regrets in marrying him.

Amanda snapped out of her thoughts when a sudden pain shot through her, a pain that almost sent her to her knees. Michael caught her, holding her close, and waited until she showed that everything was okay. They needed to go and soon or else she'd be having the baby right on their bed. Her husband grabbed her arm and wrapped it around his neck, curling his other around her waist to help her walk out the bedroom door. "Breathe, Amanda, breathe," he instructed, feeling his wife's whole body tense as another wave of pain washed over her. "Remember what the doctor told you to do. Breathe!" Together, they did the breathing exercises they were told to do months ago by their doctor, and slowly made their way through the trailer.

"Mommy? Daddy?" a small voice questioned behind them. Michael and Amanda turned halfway to look up and see their two year-old daughter standing at the mouth of the hallway, rubbing her blue eyes with her tiny fingers. "Are you leaving me?" she asked, trotting to them. She tugged on her father's pant leg, looking up at him with those eyes that made him melt on the inside. Just for a moment, Michael released his wife to pick up Tracey, the little girl circling her short arms around his neck. He had forgotten all about her, and from the looks of it, Amanda had too. Now, they had a problem. Who was going to look after her when they were at the hospital?

Michael gave a knowing look at Amanda and she knew that look, too.

That look made her scowl.

"No, Michael."

"Why not?"

"I'm not leaving my daughter with that...with that...that menace!"

"But she loves him!"

"No."

"Amanda..."

"Don't 'Amanda' me, Michael. I am _not _leaving my - AH!" This time, the cramps were bad, and they made Amanda fall to a knee. Tracey, having no idea what pregnancy did to a woman, cried out for her mother, only seeing that her mom was in pain and in need of help. The girl squirmed helplessly in Michael's arms, struggling to get to her pained mother who needed comfort. Michael set his brown-haired daughter down and aided Amanda, pulling her back up to her feet. "Babe, I am _not _going to have this argument. We're going to the hospital and Tracey is going with him. That's final."

The woman didn't even bother to argue.

* * *

"Trevor! Answer the door! Damn it, T, we don't have time! Answer the fuckin' door!" Michael yelled as he banged his fist against the trailer door. Tracey was bundled tightly in her hot pink coat, hood up and gentle face buried in her father's shoulder to keep the bitingly cold wind away from it. Inside, Michael could hear his best friend's voice shout curses at him, and the lock finally clicked. The door swung open, revealing a disgruntled Trevor Philips, who looked halfway from dropping to the floor from exhaustion. Michael knew this was the first night in many weeks they were able to get a decent amount of sleep since the police seemed to give up in their search for them, but Amanda's sudden labor, in Michael's mind, was more important than sleep at the moment.

"Michael, it's three-thirty in the morning," Trevor stated, annoyance laced in his voice. "You better have a damn good excuse."

"Amanda, she's-" Before he could finish, Michael was interrupted by Amanda screaming, "Michael, the baby's coming! I can feel it!"

"Is that a good enough excuse?" Michael asked, turning back towards Trevor, who seemed wide awake now after figuring out what was happening. In Michael's arms, Tracey twisted halfway to look at Trevor, holding up her fur-rimmed hood to reveal her red and snot-covered face. She beamed when her blue eyes landed on the gruff man, holding out her arms to him. Trevor came forward and took her from Michael, grinning himself when the girl hugged him happily. The moment Tracey left his arms, Michael bounded for his car, Amanda laying down in the back seat with her head propped up with a pillow.

"Take care of her!" Michael shouted as he got into his car.

"I'll meet you there!" Trevor yelled back, shifting Tracey in his arms. Michael was already down the road when Trevor yelled after him.

In his trailer, Trevor successfully pried Tracey's arms from his neck, setting her down on his stained couch. The two year-old sat on the edge, her boots swinging back and forth as she watched her "uncle" jump into a pair of filthy jeans and pull on an equally dirty white T-shirt. He didn't even bother combing his thinning hair, which was sticking up in all directions. For nine months, he watched Amanda become more and more pregnant, and she and Michael both had agreed to keep the gender of their unborn child a surprise, seeing as how Amanda had done that when she was pregnant with Tracey. This was the moment they had all been waiting for and sometimes it felt like Trevor was more excited than the actual parents.

"We going somewhere?" Tracey asked, tilting her head to the side.

"You bet your pretty little head we are," Trevor said, pulling on his parka. "By tomorrow, you're going to be a big sister."

He came up to her, pulling his surrogate niece into his arms. It always amazed him just how light she was, always making him feel like one wrong move and she could break. The moment Trevor had met Amanda's little daughter, a certain protectiveness rose up in him that he had never experienced before, and the moment the girl stumbled over his name and hearing come out as T-rev-or, Tracey Townley had the man unknowingly wrapped around her finger. Trevor knew he could never be angry at her. Hell, all she had to do was look up at him with those big, blue eyes and he was a goner. Sometimes, Trevor felt like he was the _only _one that fell for that.

"Where we going?" Tracey asked, clutching at his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"To the hospital, hun."

"Why? Are you hurt?"

"Nope, but your momma needs you right now."

When he opened the door, he was immediately greeted by a harsh, bitterly cold wind, and he felt Tracey nuzzle his shoulder in an attempt to keep her face protected. For once, Trevor was glad he bought that attachable canvas for his Bodhi because winter in Ludendorff was _merciless. _Cold winds, frozen rain, and the snow never seemed to stop. Trevor wanted to move somewhere warmer, and he hoped Michael would want to, too. The only thing that kept him in North Yankton was the Townley family, specifically the two year-old in his arms.

"Fuck, it's cold out here," Trevor hissed, yanking the passenger door open. Plopping Tracey down in the seat, he strapped her in, slamming the door close.

When he slid in the driver's seat, he heard Tracey say, "Car seat?"

"Not today, sweetheart, not today."

* * *

It was ten in the morning when Michael walked out in the waiting room, eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep, but his body was relaxed and his expression was a mixture of relief and happiness. Amanda had dozed off after holding their new baby for a good half an hour, gushing over how his chubbiness was cute and asking Michael question after question on what should name their new baby boy. Michael had gotten to hold him, as well, for at least ten minutes before the nurse whisked the baby away to take the newborn to the monitoring room and finish the preparations. Having remembered Trevor yelling something about meeting him at the hospital, Michael had made his way to the waiting room to see if his crime partner had come or not.

What he saw stopped Michael in his tracks.

Trevor had come, bringing Tracey too. The man sat under the window, his head bent back and mouth agape as he slept. Little Tracey cuddled against Trevor's torso, her legs hanging over one side of her "uncle's" waist, and her mouth plugged by her thumb. Trevor's arms were wrapped around her, keeping her close to him and to prevent the girl from falling to the floor. The sight was one to behold, and to anyone who didn't know Trevor Philips, would've thought it was sweet that a man was caring for his little girl so much. But Michael knew the true Trevor Philips - violent, impulsive, unpredictable, and psychotic. Michael never questioned why Amanda didn't want her daughter around the man, and sometimes he didn't blame her, but when Tracey was involved, Michael always saw a softer side to Trevor he didn't think existed.

"Hey," Michael said, kicking Trevor's boot with his own. The gruff-looking man jerked awake and straightened in his seat, looking up at Michael with a questionable look. "It's a boy, Trev, a baby boy. Twenty-one inches and eight pounds. Amanda was in labor for seven hours before she finally gave birth, so she's asleep right now." Michael sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, but he chuckled when he heard Tracey give a breathy giggle in her sleep. "Sorry about dumping her on you this morning. I was a bit stressed and-"

"It's fine," Trevor cut in. "Good thing you came over because I would've skinned you alive if I found out your kid was born and you hadn't told me."

"That's a nice thought, Trevor, thanks." Jutting his thumb over his shoulder, Michael asked, "You wanna see the kid? He's in the baby room."

"Fuck yeah, I do. Let's go." The man stood as slowly as he could so as not to disturb a still sleeping Tracey. Trevor grinned as he followed Michael out of the room and said, "Let's just hope the kid takes after his mom and not his fat-ass dad. That'd be a tragedy."

"Shut up, Trevor."

* * *

Her tiny nose pressed against the glass, breath fogging up the window, and her grubby hands left behind fingerprints when she was pulled away by her father. Tracey clutched at Michael's shirt as she stared at her newborn brother, all bundled up in baby blue, with a awed expression. She was too young to comprehend where babies came from and for right now it was better that way. Michael had to wonder how well Tracey was going to cope with having another child around the house, a child that was going to take up a lot of his and Amanda's attention. Amanda had mentioned once that her daughter was pretty good at keeping herself entertained and didn't need to be paid attention to all the time, which was a good thing, Michael supposed. Still, if she _did _ever need attention...she had the maniac to keep her company.

"T, you're scaring the kids. Look. You just made that one cry," Michael said, tugging on Trevor's shoulder.

Trevor had his face squished up against the window, hands flat against the glass, leaving even grubbier fingerprints behind. Tracey thought it was funny that her Uncle Trevor was doing such a thing, so of course she wanted to do it too. Michael really hoped that the two wouldn't develop a 'monkey see, monkey do' sort of relationship, with Tracey trying to mimic everything her surrogate uncle did. He knew Amanda _definitely_ wouldn't appreciate that kind of relationship.

"I'm not scaring them, Mike. She's just crying out of happiness because _I'm _here now."

"Yeah, I bet that's it, T."

"So," Trevor started, pushing away from the window to look at Michael square-on. "Does the boy have a name?"

"Not yet. We haven't really had time to sit down and talk about it. Amanda likes the name William, but...I don't know. He doesn't really look like a William."

"Well, what names do _you _like?"

Michael paused, thinking it over. "I've always liked the name Hank. Short, simple, tough-sounding. I like it."

"Hank. Hank... _Hank_." Trevor shook his head. "Nope. Can't do it."

"Why? It's a great name! Hank was the name of the main character in _Last Will And Testament_. Man, he kicked ass!"

"It just makes me think of hanky-panky," Trevor said, shrugging his shoulders.

Michael stared at the man for a moment, then sighed. "Thanks for that helpful insight, Trevor."

They went silent, just watching the nurse inside the baby room do her job in monitoring the infants. There were a total of seven babies - four girls and three boys. A warm feeling bubbled in the pit of Michael's stomach, knowing that one of the boys was his, that he was actually a father and not just a step-father. He helped create that child, that boy was _his_ and no one else's. Michael couldn't help but fantasize about all the things he could teach his son in the future: how to play football, how to handle a firearm correctly, how to tell a good movie from a bad one, how to treat a lady properly, how to be a man. Michael knew he'd have to be careful about exposing his kids to his criminal lifestyle; he didn't want his son and step-daughter to follow in his footsteps. He wanted them to lead normal, healthy lifestyles...well...as normal and healthy as kids could live with a master thief for a father, a stripper for a mother, and an unstable psycho for an uncle.

"What about James?" Trevor said, his rough voice cutting into Michael's thoughts.

"James? Where'd that name come from?"

"There was this book I used to read-"

"Wait, you know how to read, T?" Michael laughed, enjoying the dirty look Trevor sent his way. "Just kiddin', bud. Go ahead."

Trevor cleared his throat and continued, "Well, as I was saying before you rudely interrupted like the fuckin' prick you are, there was this author named Jack Marston that wrote a book about his dad, an ex-criminal who turned into a family man after marrying a whore and having a son. Kind of like you, if you think about it. The book's old, though; _Red Dead_, that's what it's called." Trevor propped his arm against the window, leaning against it. "The dad's name was John, but Jack's son's name was James. James went on to write a western series based off his dad's stories. I just thought... I have a lot of respect for James Marston. He continued that legacy when he didn't have to."

Michael was quiet for a moment, taking in the story. "Jesus, Trevor, didn't know you could be so sentimental."

Trevor growled, "Fuck off. If you don't like it, then just go ahead and say it."

"I'm just messing with you. No need to get all defensive."

The two went quiet again. Michael shifted Tracey in his arms, who had nodded off a while back. Thankfully, his and Trevor's hadn't woken her.

"James, huh?" Michael questioned.

"Forget it. It was stupid."

"No. I like it. He looks like a James." Michael eyed the man beside him. "Do you think he'll write about me someday?"

"Maybe. You are one of the FIB's Most Wanted Criminals in America, remember?" Trevor replied. "The main character would _have _to have a ruggedly handsome, fuckin' badass pilot sidekick, of course, or else the book would be boring." The man grinned behind his mustache. "Because let's face it, behind all that crime-committing is a boring as fuck man who doesn't have that much to offer as a good, likeable character."

"You just said I was like John Marston and I know that book became a classic."

"Just because you have a few things in common doesn't make you badass like him. He _never _missed his targets, _ever_."

"Trevor..._I _never miss my targets either."

The mustached man glared at Michael for a moment before turning away from that smug man. "So, the first name's James, but what about middle?"

"Probably Michael, or at least I'm hoping Amanda will be okay with that."

"James Michael Townley," Trevor announced. The man almost sounded proud, like this was the biggest thing that had ever happened to him. "Sounds good. Better than _Hank, _at least."

Despite Trevor's jab at him, Michael still laughed. "You're such a prick."

* * *

**So, I did alter the history of the Townley family. On the GTA wiki, it says that Michael met Amanda in 1993, had Tracey and Jimmy, and then got married. BUT, on the page for Tracey, it says she was born in 1991...hmmm. The wiki also says that Michael met Trevor in 1993, as well. In conclusion, I have no idea when everyone was born, so I went with this. **

**Also, I feel like the characters are OOC. This is my first GTA story and I haven't really grasped the characters' styles yet, so I hope I didn't butcher them too much. And I hope the whole how-Jimmy-got-his-name backstory was okay. I love how Rockstar put a Red Dead Redemption Easter egg in the game! XD So I went with it. **

**All in all, this story is going to be mainly Uncle Trevor/Tracey-centric with some Uncle Trevor/Jimmy, as well. When I played the Fame or Shame mission a second time, I was a little disappointed that that was really the only time Trevor and Tracey interacted with one another, especially after Trevor admitted to the fact he swore he'd beat down anyone who wronged her, and I feel like Trevor would do the same for Jimmy if need be. I started forming my own head canons and I just couldn't keep them to myself anymore. I had to write them down, so I hope you enjoy them!**

**Author's Note - Fin**


	2. The Hag (Not Girl) On Fire

**The Hag (Not Girl) On Fire**

**...\~/...**

After two years of being a stay-at-home mom, Michael finally convinced Amanda to get another job. Stripping was out the question since they were married now, so the woman filled out application after application, and finally landed a job in retail. The question 'Why do I need a job when we have the money you stole?' came up many times, and Michael always told her the same thing: the heist money was for dealing with their bigger finances, such as trailer rent, car and medical insurance, ammunition for future jobs, fortification for their getaway car and equipment; Amanda's hard earned dollars would go toward the smaller things, like groceries, clothes, etcetera. Plus, and Michael kept this reason to himself, Amanda being away allowed him to spend time with his kids alone...and to let Trevor see them without Amanda constantly looking over his shoulder.

"Canton, huh? Good ol' Lester thinks we're finally capable of handling bigger jobs?" Trevor asked, rocking a two year-old Jimmy to sleep. "About fuckin' time."

"Hey, watch your language around the kids. Tracey's already starting to-"

Suddenly, the four year-old girl, who was sprawled across the dining room table on her stomach, accidentally knocked over her sparkly lime green nail polish. "Shit!" Tracey cursed, quickly picking it up, and cleaning the mess up with a paper towel. Trevor started laughing, his whole body shaking, disturbing little Jimmy's slumber. The two year-old tilted his head up against his uncle's torso with a questionable, tired gaze, and the man quieted himself, letting chuckles out every once in awhile.

Michael shook his head, fighting to keep a grin of his own from surfacing. "See! And Manda thinks it's _my _fault that Tracey's cussing when it's actually yours!" the father scolded. Another muffled snicker escaped Trevor and Michael shot the mustached man a glare. "Control yourself! You're encouraging her!"

"Daddy, stop moving! You're messing it up!" Tracey shouted, a streak of nail polish now on the side of Michael's ring finger. "I need you to stay still!"

"Oh, sorry, sugarplum. I'll try to be careful."

That's right. Tracey was painting her father's fingernails. Michael set aside his masculinity and pride for his daughter's amusement, and he had to admit the color was nice to look at. His daughter said something about it bringing the lighter green flecks of his eyes out and that the sparkles were to make him look glamorous or glam-ous, if he quoted Tracey correctly. He almost said no to her fingernail painting idea when he discovered Trevor was coming over, but his daughter had given him her famous puppy-dog eyed look and he caved in. Surprisingly, Trevor hadn't laughed once..._yet_. Michael was just _waiting _for the man to start his jabs.

After several minutes of silence went by, Michael just had to ask.

"Alright, Trevor, what's your angle?"

"Angle? I don't have an angle."

"I'm sitting here, getting my nails painted by a four year-old, and you haven't said a word."

That's when Michael caught a shimmer of something and Trevor held out his hand, wiggling his sparkly, flaming hot pink nails at Michael. "She said this color would make me look fabulous," Trevor explained, giving his bewildered friend a piercing look, daring Michael to laugh at him. The man didn't because then Tracey had to give her input. "I painted his toenails too. His feet stink," she said matter-of-factly, swaying her feet back and forth.

"The whole man stinks," Michael corrected, watching Tracey blow on his wet nails.

"Hey, my aroma is pure. I refuse to smell like manufactured daisies like you. Ladies _love _purity, not fakeness," Trevor said, sitting up straighter.

"And I will forever be confused as to why women find you attractive in the first place."

Michael turned his attention to his daughter, watching her wipe away excess nail polish off his nails and fingers. Then, a flash of bluish-black against her fair complexion caught his attention when her sleeve rode up. Michael pulled his hand away, despite Tracey's protests, and pushed her sleeve up to her elbow as gently as he could. Ugly bruises decorated her forearm and Michael felt his daughter stiffen under his intense gaze. "Trace, where did you get these?" he asked, tracing the hideous marks with his fingertips. Trevor was leaning forward in his seat now, attentive and tense, his eyes narrowing angrily.

"I-I fell," Tracey stammered, struggling to pull away, but Michael kept a firm grip on her. The girl watched nervously as her father lightly put his fingers over the bruises, eyebrows furrowing in realization.

"They form a handprint," Michael said, looking at Trevor. Then, he cut his eyes back to the four year-old. "Who did this to you?"

"I said I fell! No one did nothing!" Tracey cried, shrinking visibly away from Michael.

"Tracey Marie, _don't _lie to me! This is serious!"

"Leave me alone!" And the little girl pried her father's fingers from her and scrambled hurriedly off the table, running to her room with the slam of her door sounding shortly after. Michael was standing now, hands curled into fists, his face scrunched up in that expression that appeared when his short temper was about to flare and he wanted answers. Trevor silently went over to the couch to lie Jimmy down, tucking blankets around the boy to keep him comfortable, and then he directed his full attention to Michael.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Michael snapped, refusing to look at his friend.

"Are we going to find the fucker who did this to her or we just going to stand here with our thumbs up our asses?" Trevor asked, his own skin prickling in anger. Whoever did that to their little Tracey was going to pay and they would probably end up dead with their head on a stake. For a moment, flashbacks of his father hitting him only made Trevor bristle, remembering how it felt to be on the receiving end. Trevor flicked his eyes in the direction of Tracey's room, frowning. It was obvious the person who grabbed her threatened Tracey or maybe it was someone they all knew? What if it was some creep at her preschool? What if, what if, what if...? Ludendorff was small and mostly friendly, but that didn't mean it didn't have its fair share of freaks.

Trevor made his way towards Tracey's bedroom and said, "Come on, let's go see if we can get her to answer our-"

"No." Michael pointed at Trevor and the man stopped mid-step. "She won't tell you, even if _you _ask her. Trace is stubborn; she's just like her mother."

"So, what? We're just going to let that fucker roam around? What if they do that to another kid?"

"Let me talk to Amanda first, then we'll figure out what to do." Michael's voice was hoarse, a sign that he was furious, despite trying to keep a level head.

Trevor seethed, quivering. "Fine. Call me when you find out whoever did that to her." He took a step towards Michael. "Then, the bastard pays."

* * *

Amanda stepped into the trailer, stamping her boots against the welcome mat to rid of any snow, shutting the door to the heavy snowfall outside. Snowflakes melted in her brown curls, covering her shoulders and sticking to her eyelashes. The clothing store she worked out was higher class compared to the rest of Ludendorff and he was getting used to Amanda coming home with a American Hawk bag with new clothes, sometimes bearing gifts for him as well. When she spotted him sitting at the table with a grim expression and his hands folded before his mouth, she smiled brightly and flourished her bag happily.

"They let me get fifty dollars worth of clothes! Ah, the benefits of working retail!" she exclaimed, coming up behind him after disposing her shopping bag on the couch. Michael felt her arms wrap slowly around his neck, hot breath fanning across his ear and jaw. "And," his wife began, voice thick and sultry. "I got a sexy little number _just _for you to enjoy later, babe." When her husband didn't respond, she backed away slightly, hands still rested on his shoulders. "Is there something wrong, hun? Did you get some bad news today?"

Michael remained frozen for a second before gesturing to the seat across from him and Amanda walked over to sit down, heels clacking as she did. The woman lowered herself slowly, never once breaking her blue gaze from his green one. She knew this look - the one that usually told her he had some grave news to tell her, like a heist didn't go well and he would have to leave town for awhile. She hated those talks. Amanda really, truly did. And the way his whole body was tense, how the muscles in his jaw worked, how his lips were set in that straight, emotionless line, those were all signals that this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

"Michael, what's-?"

"Tracey's got bruises on her arm," Michael interrupted sternly, his voice rough and hoarse. He always sounded like that when his temper was reaching boiling point.

In the back of her mind, Amanda knew what he meant, but she said, "So? She's a kid. She probably got them after playing rough at preschool or something." The way the hair on her arms stood on end told her that she knew _exactly _what her husband was implying.

"They form a handprint, an _adult _handprint."

Amanda kept his gaze and then visibly sagged in her seat. "Did she say who did it?"

"No. She said she fell and ran to her room. She hasn't been out since."

Concern and worry crossed Amanda's face, as well as guilt. "I _knew _I shouldn't have gotten a job yet. These kids need me here." The woman rubbed her face with her hands, a habit she had when she was becoming stressed. "Do you have any guesses as to who it could be?"

"Like I said, Tracey wouldn't talk to me. I have no idea."

A tense silence fell between them and Michael saw many expressions change on his wife's face: anger, annoyance, worry, and then a look that told him she was about to ask that one question.

"Don't, Amanda. Don't."

"What? I have to! He's a violent psychopath! For all we know, Tracey did something that made him mad and he grabbed her!"

"Gah! Amanda, you always think it's Trevor! He's loves the kids and he would never hurt them! You just...you just..."

"I just what, Michael?" Amanda asked, leaning forward as if challenging him.

"You just haven't seen Trevor like I have. You're always gone when he's around the kids. Tracey adores him! Why, I don't know, but I know for a fact he would never hurt them."

His wife stood, towering over him and looking at him with irritated, narrowed eyes. "Fine. Let's go ask her."

"But she's probably asleep," Michael said, following after her quickly.

Amanda knocked on Tracey's pale pink door, Michael remembering how he and his daughter painted it as a way to bond a couple months ago. Sparkly stickers spotted the door, like dragonflies, butterflies, and airplanes (Tracey said Uncle Trevor would like those), and he watched as the door slowly opened to reveal a solemn looking four year-old. Tracey's eyes were red, as if she'd been crying and rubbing at them, and bits of snot still stuck to her nose. Her hair was messy and falling out her ponytail, giving her a disheveled appearance, and he noticed how light her hair was becoming, almost a dirty blonde now. The girl didn't say a word to them as she ran to her bed and hopped onto it, grabbing a plastic toy crop duster plane that Trevor had gotten her when she was two. Tracey refused to look at them as she flicked the propeller on the plane, blue eyes watching it spin.

"Honey," Amanda called out gently, entering the room to sit beside her daughter. "Can I see them? The bruises?" she asked, fingers sliding the girl's sleeve up slowly.

"No," Tracey spat, and moved away from her mother.

"Baby, we need to find out who hurt you so we can tell them to never do it again," Amanda urged.

"I don't want them to get hurt," Tracey mumbled, tracing the logo on her plane. "I like them."

Amanda rubbed her daughter's back soothingly, but the woman cut her eyes towards Michael to give him a pointed look. A shiver crawled down Michael's spine and the hair on his arms stood on end. So the attacker was someone Tracey cared for and didn't want to get hurt? That didn't help Trevor at all. Last night, Michael remembered how livid Trevor looked and how angrily he reacted. No, it couldn't have been his friend. Amanda never liked Trevor and she was just searching for a way to keep the man away from her kids and from herself. She thought Trevor was violent and impulsive, and Michael had to agree with her, but Trevor also had a soft side when it came to Tracey and Jimmy.

"Was it...was it Trevor?" Amanda managed to get out. "Did he get angry and grab you?"

Tracey froze, clutching tightly at her toy airplane. Then, her blue eyes met her mother's, and she said in the flattest voice, "Uncle Trevor would never hurt me." And she turned back to her plane.

Both Michael and Amanda exchanged glances. They didn't know Tracey was capable of such a tone; it almost sounded bitter and cold. Maybe she heard the two of them discussing things out in the dining room since the walls in the trailer weren't exactly thick. The girl was smart for her age, so maybe she figured out that her mother disliked Trevor? Michael wouldn't be surprised if she had.

"Well, if it wasn't Uncle Trevor, then who was it, babe?" When Tracey didn't answer, Amanda added, "Trace, we need to know who this person is? What if they hurt another little girl? What if...what if they come back and hurt your brother? Do you want that?"

"No..." Tracey looked across the room, the gears in her head turning as she thought. When she looked back down at her plane, she said quietly, "It was Ms. Beattie."

"The babysitter? The elderly woman that sometimes watches you?"

Tracey explained, "I broke a plate on accident. She dragged me to time-out." She turned her head to her mother, looking guilty. "I didn't _mean _to. I said I would clean it up, but she wouldn't listen."

Amanda pulled Tracey into a hug and kissed the top of her hair. "It's alright, baby. We'll go talk to her tomorrow morning and ask her about it. And we promise that there will be no _guns_, _explosives_, and _fire_ involved. Right, dad?" Amanda said, tossing a pointed look over at her husband. The man nodded in agreement, even if he _didn't _like the terms. He had wanted to seem a little intimidating by walking in Ms. Beattie's house with an AK-47. Amanda said, "Good. Now give me a kiss, Tracey." The mother leaned in when Tracey got on her knees to give her mother a peck on the cheek and wrapped her little arms around Amanda's neck. Michael's stomach churned when he saw the bruises on his daughter's arm.

"Now give daddy a kiss and a hug," Amanda ordered.

Tracey did as she was told, sliding off the bed and ran over to her father, letting the man pick her up.

In his ear, she whispered, "Please don't hurt her. It was an accident."

* * *

Ms. Beattie was a sixty-something year old woman who had a crop of fluffy, snow white hair and walked with a slight stoop due to old age. When Michael and Amanda needed someone to watch out for the children, Ms. Beattie volunteered and the parents were impressed enough by her that they trusted her with their children. Her trailer was rusty and run-down, just like every other trailer in the park, but she tried (and failed) to make it look better with faded pink, plastic flamingos in her small yard and creepy gnomes that Michael always felt watched him when he walked up to the porch.

"Alright, promise me you'll keep your temper in check," Amanda said, putting a hand on his chest to stop the man in his tracks.

"What do you expect me to do, Manda? I may be a criminal, but I still have morals, you know, and decking an old lady in the face seems pretty immoral."

"Just checking to see if we were on the same page, Michael."

Amanda's heels clacked against the snow-covered porch and she opened the screen door, knocking politely on the main door. Inside, they heard cats meowing, and Ms. Beattie shout, "Coming!" Moments later, the door opened and revealed the five foot woman. She was dressed in white slacks and a pastel pink cardigan, a cat patch sewn on to the breast pocket. Her wrinkled lips cracked a smile when her soft green eyes rested on Michael and Amanda. "Oh, hello, dearies! It's always so nice to have such a young, beautiful couple such as yourselves visit!"

Skipping the pleasantries, Michael pushed past Ms. Beattie and entered her trailer uninvited. Guns, explosives, and fire were prohibited, and he promised to keep his anger under control, but that didn't mean he couldn't be a _little _forceful and intimidating. Ms. Beattie gasped at the intrusion and turned on Michael, her powdered face reddening. "How rude!" she cried. "I was just about to invite you into my home and-!"

"Give it up, Beattie. We know what you did!"

"And what did I do, exactly?"

"You grabbed our little girl and bruised her arm! Over a fuckin' plate!"

"Michael!" Amanda chastised, stepping in. She turned to Ms. Beattie with an apologetic look and said, "I'm so sorry, Ms. Beattie, but we found bruises on Tracey's arm and she mentioned you. We wanted to come see you personally to hear your side of the story before accusing anyone. And we _promise _to be civil and keep our _anger _in check, don't we, Michael?" The last part she hissed, glaring with icy blue eyes at her husband, whose hands were curled tightly into fists.

He held Amanda's stare for a couple seconds before diverting his gaze. "Fine," he huffed.

Amanda spoke to Ms. Beattie once more. "I apologize for coming to you on such sort notice, but I hope you understand the urgency of the situation. Tracey's our daughter and we hate to see her hurt and we hope this was all a misunderstanding and she got hurt elsewhere." Before Ms. Beattie could respond, Amanda added quickly, "You've been so generous to us, taking in the kids when we couldn't be there. We _really _appreciate it."

Ms. Beattie stared at Amanda for the longest time, redness blotching her cheeks and neck. "She broke one of my husband's plates," the old woman started, shuffling over to the china cabinet. She gestured to the many plates, pure white with elegant blue patterns etched into them. "My husband got these when he was stationed overseas and brought them back as a surprise. Tracey and I were dusting them off when she broke one. The little brat didn't even apologize."

Michael stepped toward the woman hostilely, but Amanda moved in front of him.

"Tracey says she offered to clean it up, but you grabbed her and dragged her to time-out." Amanda offered her sweetest smile, the one she often forced when dealing with rude customers at work. "I raised my Tracey to be polite and to own her mistakes. I know she wouldn't intentionally break something of yours and then refuse to do anything about it. She's a good girl."

"That was a piece of my husband she broke and I'll never get it back. She deserved what she got!"

"No child deserves to get treated like that, Ms. Beattie," Amanda said quietly.

"Yeah. How about I bruise your face and see how you like it," Michael spat, and that earned him a glare from his wife.

Ms. Beattie walked to the door and pulled it open again, pointing outside. "I want you to leave. You're disturbing the peace." She and Amanda stared at one another, and finally the younger woman broke away from Michael to walk out the door. Michael stayed in his place for a minute before following his wife out, never once breaking Ms. Beattie's stare. Amanda was already in the car when Ms. Beattie slammed the door behind Michael, and he walked down the porch stairs and climbed into his car. Hands gripping the steering wheel firmly and eyes looking straight forward, Michael said, "So, we're not going to do anything?"

Amanda turned towards him. "What _can _we do, Michael?" Her husband opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it. "Other than gunning her down, blowing her up, or beating her to death?"

"I don't know. Press charges?"

"She's old, Michael. The judge will probably throw it out."

"You never know."

"Let's...let's just forget about it. Tracey's okay and we'll just never let Ms. Beattie near our children again. Plus, Tracey didn't want us to do anything to her."

"She would be mad at us for _weeks_."

"Yeah..." Amanda went quiet, propping her elbow up near the window and rested her chin in her hand. "I _really _wanted to kick that woman to the ground."

Michael just laughed. He sure was rubbing off on her.

* * *

Trevor stood on his porch, his shoulder propped up against the beam. He flipped his Zippo lighter, the Air Force insignia emblazoned on the side, open and closed. The tiny flame, glowing blue and orange, was enough to make his insides tingle excitedly, just knowing that such a tiny flame can cause a lot of damage if used properly...and if there was gasoline involved.

We heard the door slam at the trailer across the street and looked up. He always thought that trailer was an eyesore, with those stupid pink flamingos littering the yard and those creepy ass gnomes peering up out the snow. He always wanted to use them as target practice, to see how many he could destroy before the old bat came home in her sputtering station wagon. He _always _hated that old hag. She was the one that Amanda wanted to babysit the kids instead of him. A sixty year old woman instead of _him_. Trevor flipped his lighter open again, hovering his thumb over the fire until the burn became too much. He closed the lid, watching Michael hurry down the steps of the old bat's trailer porch, and get into his car, oblivious to the fact that someone was watching them.

So, it was the old hag, eh? She was the one that bruised Tracey?

Trevor flipped his Zippo open again.

* * *

"_Investigators say that an outside source must've started the fire since all appliances and electronics were checked thoroughly and said to be in good shape. Nine-one-one was called at around twelve thirty last night and the fire department were the first to arrive at the scene. The investigation of Ms. Loretta Beattie's death and the cause of the fire are still underway. We will update you all when we get more information. Back to you, Steven._"

Michael and Amanda gawked at the television screen, little Tracey munching away happily at her cereal. The news about Ms. Beattie's sudden death, one where she was burnt to death by an unknown cause, was something that the parents had not expected to hear so early in the morning. According to the newscast, nothing was salvageable, and Ms. Beattie's corpse would've been unidentifiable if the police hadn't known who the owner of the trailer was prior to the fire.

The front door opened and Trevor entered, stomping the snow off his boots as he closed the door.

"Uncle Trevor!" Tracey cried excitedly, hopping out of her chair and ran up to the man. Trevor kneeled down to pick her up in his arms, standing up to his full height.

"Hey, there, nightingale," he greeted, walking over to the table with the girl still in his arms. "So, did you hear about the fire last night? Not to happy about it being so close to _my _place, but I was _so _sorry to hear about the old hag's passing." His tone was insincere and sarcastic, words dripping with venom as he spoke. Michael recognized the grin on Trevor's face, the same one that he always had when he got a headshot with his sniper rifle or when he had a man on his knees before him, begging for mercy, to which Trevor would give none. A chill ran down Michael's spine at the sight and he immediately knew what Trevor was hinting at.

"You psychotic bastard," Michael hissed. "You...you..."

"You, you," Trevor mocked in a high-pitched voice. "Spit it out already."

Michael shook his head. "Nah, I don't need to. You know _exactly _what I want to say. You're just lucky Tracey's in the room."

"Oh, chin up, sugar-tits. At least those gnomes won't stare at us anymore."

"Trevor?"

"Yes?"

"...Shut the fuck up."


End file.
